


Grand Pas de Deux

by vetiverite



Series: Grand Pas de Deux [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ballet AU, Dancer Fíli, Established Relationship, FiKi December Challenge, Historical AU, Hurt/Comfort, Imperial Russian AU, M/M, Nobleman Kíli, Orphan Fíli, References to The Nutcracker, Unrelated Fíli and Kíli
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:54:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21772528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vetiverite/pseuds/vetiverite
Summary: Prince Kyril "Kili" Durinev has been pressured to wed, but his heart belongs to Filipp "Fili" Koivu, a principal dancer with the Imperial Ballet.  On the night of a performance of The Nutcracker, their future will be sealed.
Relationships: Fíli & Kíli (Tolkien), Fíli/Kíli (Tolkien)
Series: Grand Pas de Deux [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1646743
Comments: 15
Kudos: 41
Collections: GatheringFiKi - 12 Days OF Christmas 2019





	Grand Pas de Deux

**Author's Note:**

> For the GatheringFiKi 12 Days of Christmas 2019 Challenge. Part Two is soon to be published.

_Saint Petersburg, Russia_ _December 1893_

_Open it._

Exquisitely crafted of gold and _guilloché_ , the snuff-box resting in Prince Kyril Gavrilovich’s palm felt electric to his touch. Beneath the Durinev family crest, his own initials graced the lid, delineated in rose-cut diamonds. Not only this, but Fabergé had used the deep storm-blue enamel reserved exclusively for the Durinevs. So personal and unique an _objet_ would have had to be made to order, commissioned well in advance...

_Go ahead, my love. Open it._

Princess Disa Tikhonovna Durinev watched her son languidly from her silk-covered chaise-longue. She felt his excitement, but style demanded that aristocratic women feign world-weary cynicism. Accordingly, she lay upon her cushions like one completely spent from hard labor. In truth, the heaviest thing she’d ever lifted was Minx, her spoiled Pekingese, now clutched against her pearl-draped breast. 

_Kíli, don’t keep us in suspense! Just open it already!_ This from her next-oldest son Efim – Fima the Terrible – who had already playfully attempted to snatch the gift from her hand.

With a deep breath, Kíli thumbed the snuff-box lid open. At the sight of its contents – a golden key nested in white velvet – he gasped. _Mother!_

 _You win._ She chuckled. _I’ve given up. Stina was the last straw._

Ah, Stina. Highborn, beautiful, as graceful on horseback as in a ballroom… but Kíli had dashed the poor dear’s hopes straight out of the gate. She’d been the third—no, the _fourth_ candidate presented. He’d rejected them all, forcing Disa to admit that her youngest might be a monk in the making.

But he was not. This she now knew.

Thank heaven Timofei and Aleksei had already wed and sired their own heirs. Fima would follow their example next May; doubtless his Olga would add even more little flower-buds to the family tree. Their ancient name would endure. Why bind Kíli to an obligation already fulfilled by others? Why not give him his freedom?

 _The Bariatinskys drove a hard bargain, but I won,_ Disa gloated. _They’ve agreed to make all the necessary modernizations, including the installation of steam radiators and electric lights. By Ascension Day, the mansion on Bol'shaya Morskaya will be ready for you._ A delicate pause. _And for anyone else you deem essential to your happiness._

Before Fima the Terrible could speak a syllable in jest, she waved him toward the door.

 _M-mama,_ Kíli choked as soon as they were alone.

 _Of course I’ll never understand why you could not at least_ entertain _the thought of Stina. If you don’t love each other, what of it? Few of our status do. But under the eaves of marriage, you would both be safe. Ah, yes, both!_ Blue eyes sparkling, the princess sat straight up, eliciting a yip from Minx. _So long as Stina gave you an heir and conducted her affairs discreetly thereafter,_ she _could enjoy a paramour as well as could you!_

Kíli held the key to his lips _. But I love…_ he whispered.

 _I know whom you love._ Disa set the restless Minx down onto the carpet. _I know whom you keep in that charming little jewel-box of an apartment on Liteyniy Prospekt_.She snorted. _At least you’ve chosen a true artist and not a god-knows-what from the_ corps.

A rush of indignation stained Kíli’s cheeks. He knew his mother’s fear was real. The _corps de ballet_ teemed with young adventurers waiting to catch a prince between their legs. But Fíli wasn’t _corps;_ he deserved to be championed. So it was with unusual heat that Kíli demanded, _You think me the prey of a common whore?_

_I think nothing of the sort. From all accounts, Fílipp Akselovich is uncommonly virtuous for a dancer. On you alone he has bestowed his favors— and for those, I’m told he made you bend the knee and beg, yes?_

_MOTHER!_ Kíli’s flame color deepened.

 _Peace, my child. You are of age; you may live as you choose. You shall have your full fortune, a mansion to house it, and your chosen one by your side_. _Your Fíli is divinely gifted; they say he will be the Imperial Ballet’s_ premier _within a year. He is honest and conscientious. And he is as beautiful as the sun._ Extending her hand to Kíli, Disa drew him down for kisses on both cheeks. _Will you see him dance tonight?_

 _Regrettably, no. He has asked me not to attend his performance; he says I distract him. But he will come offstage to find his dressing room filled with flowers. And afterward… afterward…_ Clutching the Faberge box with one hand, Kíli unconsciously stroked his own face with the other, as if imagining a certain person’s touch. Blushing, he told her, _Forgive me, Mamuchka, I do not think I will be home tonight_.

 _Well, I certainly will! One cannot attend ball after ball, night after night, without a rest._ His mother sank back against the cushions. _Take the_ c _oupé_ _, then, and have Khodansky bring extra rugs. They say tonight will be cold enough to chill the Devil himself._

_Fewer curtain calls tonight,_ complained Kseniya, plucking at the sweaty neckline of her Sugar Plum Fairy costume. _Already they’re bored._

 _They all saw it last year when it was new, and they didn’t like it then._ Feodor was already pulling his skirt up so that an assistant could unbuckle Mother Ginger’s massive panniers. _The critics didn’t favor us then, and they won’t now_. _Wise creatures._

Kseniya cut her eyes at Fíli. Her nickname for Feodor was Dramatis Persona, in honor of his bitchy tongue. Still, his foul moods amused everyone, so she egged him on: _Thank God above that_ le petit maître _dropped the_ _bees, eh, Fedya?_

Everyone around them groaned; even Paavo _–_ the company’s Nutcracker Prince, only fifteen years old – mimed a gagging fit. Without consulting Petipa – _le premier maître_ – Lev Ivanov originally concluded _The Nutcracker_ with a swarm of children (Paavo among them) done up as honeybees. Ridiculous, but who dared to question the hand wielding the stick?

 _Should’ve used REAL bees,_ sniped Feodor. _That might have kept the audience awake— AH!_ At last free of his cage, he arched his back with a groan. _Speaking of little nuisances, I swear they crammed ten_ polichinelles _under my skirt instead of the usual eight. All those pointy elbows and knees— I think the Academy has the poor dears on half-rations!_

 _But the diet’s already so meager! Is it even possible to cut it in half?_ Kseniya called out to Fíli. _What say you?_

But Fíli said nothing. Facing away, he leaned heavily against the inner proscenium, exhausted beyond words. Though the music had ended and his body was now still, his mind still flew across the boards—

_tours en l’air, sauté-sauté-sauté, coupe jeté en tournant en manège_

_tours en l’air, sauté-sauté-sauté, coupe jeté en tournant en manège_

\--and he could not get it to slow down.

On a whim, Ivanov had changed the last half of the variation only hours before overture. Instead of languid leaps and _entrechats-quatres_ , he’d made Fíli execute a Cossack-style chain of _revoltades_ in unbroken sequence around the stage. Everyone knew Ivanov liked to flaunt his power, whatever the cost. And it was easy enough to push Fíli; all you had to do was get him to push himself. And he had, and now it hurt—

 _Fíli!_ Pensov the costume-master came barreling up. _What ARE you doing? Strip off right here or in your dressing room, but do it quickly, before the sweat sets in!_

As obedient as a wind-up toy, Fíli unbuttoned his hussar’s jacket. Made of plum-red bengaline lined with muslin and encrusted with gold cordage and frogging, it matched Kseniya’s deep pink, gold-spangled silk tulle and fit like a second skin. As the Sugar-Plum Fairy’s Cavalier, Fíli had the _adagio_ with Kseniya, two variations, and then the _coda_ , which involved a punishing series of lifts. Such exertion under the bright lights left him drenched, hence Pensov’s warning.

But a strange resentment overtook Fíli tonight. Slowly at first, then with increasing violence, he tore at his costume. After the jacket, off came the corselet, then the tights (still in the slippers, mind you!) and then the leotard—

 _FILI!_ cried Kseniya, covering Paavo’s eyes if not her own.

—and then Fíli was down to his dancer’s belt. He stood for a moment, bare skin gleaming, chest heaving, letting them all take a good look.

Even angry, what a beauty he was! Small yet powerful, as sleek as carven marble, a _kouros_ breathed into life by one of the old gods. _Le jeune centaure,_ Petipa called him. Surely he was as strong – able to lift and carry and leap endlessly, hour after hour, to Ivanov’s delight – but he was also sinuous and graceful, bright as gold, a man of whom one could never quite look one’s fill. Those around him now certainly couldn’t turn away—

_Fílipp Akselovich!_

Praskoviya Ioannovna, the Ballet’s backstage mother, had just arrived, holding a robe outspread to shield Fíli from rude stares. 

At least one dancer per night suffered what Praskoviya called _une petite crise de colère_ —a wee tantrum. It had never been Fíli before; he usually practiced absolute self-restraint. But even a bottle of the best champagne will explode if mishandled, and a person as bottled-up as Fíli must eventually do likewise. 

Praskoviya could see that he was trembling from crown to sole. She did not touch him; she had at least that many wits to her credit. Instead she held up the robe, cooing _Dushka… Dushka, come… ssshhhh… come…_

Sometimes one had to speak to dancers as if they were feral cats.

Kíli spent the afternoon in parade practice with his regiment at the Konnogvardeyskiy officers’ riding school. He found it difficult to concentrate. Sensing his distraction, his mount Lastochka moved through her paces as if she had memorized them for Kíli’s sake. Together they managed to get through the drill, after which he took her for a smart canter around the track to let her blow off steam.

He met with several fellow Horse Guards for _zakuski_ at the officers’ mess that evening. For the first toast, Pavelov called out _Za zdorov’ye! To our health!_ He was soon followed by Gedroits who shouted _Za zhenzhin! To the ladies!_

Nureev flicked a glance Kíli’s way. He alone knew about Fíli. It behooved them both to echo the tribute, and not only out of good manners. In his cups, Gedroits tended to turn belligerent, even with old friends.

During the loudest point in the conversation (during which Gedroits knocked over a half-emptied bottle of Château D'Yquem while acting out his latest romantic conquest) Nureev leaned close to trade a private word with Kíli. _And how is Parthenia?_

This was their code name for Fíli, from the Greek _parthenos_ , chaste one. In his purity and reticence, he had reminded them of a vestal virgin of old, guarding his own flame until he might sacrifice it upon the right altar. To pretend in conversation that Fíli was a woman made Kíli uncomfortable, but it kept the chauvinistic Gedroits off his back.

 _Parthenia is Parthenia,_ he replied _sotto voce_ to Nureev. _As much herself as ever._

_Hot or cold?_

Pensive Kíli rested his chin on his hand and toyed with a champagne glass, turning it in circles by its stem.

Lately, Fíli had been behaving… not _strangely_ , for truth be told, Fíli was eccentric to begin with. As distant as a star and just as beautiful. Even after he began to warm to Kíli, he did not immediately surrender his guard. For a time, Nureev had advised against pursuit— how else could it end but in grief? But patient Kíli submitted to every test without objection, and his distant star rewarded him with unimagined heat and light.

After five years of friendship and the last two of love, Kíli knew his partner’s temperament well enough to tell joy from grief. As of late, Fíli seemed like a bird with an injured wing, gamely struggling along on the ground when it should be airborne. 

What had brought him down?

What might lift him up?

To Nureev’s query, Kíli answered: _In the dark, she’s warm; in the light, she’s cool. Sounds like a riddle wrapped in a cipher, doesn’t it? But one to which I recently found the key… on Bol'shaya Morskaya Street._ He looked meaningfully at his friend.

Catching on, Nureev raised his glass. Unfortunately, a glint of light in the crystal caught Gedroits’ eye. _Yes! Another toast!_ roared the red-faced officer. _What are we drinking to now?_

Kíli reached for the champagne and sloshed an inch or so in every glass. Seizing his own, he threw his head back and bellowed, _Success in love!_

After every performance, the first and only thing Fíli wished to see was his dressing room armchair. Deep and soft with a high tufted back and arms that curved like a lover’s embrace, it faithfully waited every night to receive his aching body and soothe him back to sanity.

If only he could reach it through this fucking sea of flowers.

Irritation surged upward, clawing at Fíli’s throat. Of course Kíli had done all this to show his affection, but by sweet God! Did he not know what a luxury it was for some people to merely _sit down?_

Praskoviya shook her head at such extravagance. _I’ll get Shurik,_ she said. _It won’t take any time at all to clear all this aside._

But Fíli couldn’t wait that long. For a split second he thought of plowing forward, kicking and stamping, crushing fragile petals to reach his goal—but no, that was exhaustion speaking. Instead, arms extended to the sides like a funambulist’s, he picked his way across the flower-field and threw himself into his chair with a little moan of relief.

Kseniya poked her head around the threshold. _Is he all right? Is— oh!_ She broke into a wide smile. _Aren’t you a pretty picture!_

It was the truth. Banked around the chair, a many-hued riot of roses, stocks, gladioli and malmaisons provided a fragrant throne for Fíli, who was more beautiful than any flower. Wiped free of its theatrical mask, his face looked young and uncertain— Antinous caught gazing into the fateful waters of the Nile.

Still in her pointe shoes, Kseniya neatly tiptoed from door to dressing table. _Look, Fíli, an envelope,_ she said, flipping him an embossed ivory square. Its wax seal was not Durinev blue – that would be too conspicuous – but cochineal red, scented with ambergris. Its face was blank.

 _I can’t,_ whispered Fíli. He winged it back to her. _You do it._

Praskoviya smartly plucked the envelope from Kseniya’s fingers. _Get,_ she firmly told the ballerina, pushing her toward the hallway and pointedly closing the door in her impudent little face. _Now then,_ she said, running her fingernail along the envelope flap to break the seal. _Let’s see._

Fíli buried his face in his hands. _Don’t read it out loud._

A rap upon the door.

 _That had better not be Kseniya still!_ growled Praskoviya. It was not. Shurik stood in the hall, ready to clear aside the flowers for post-performance rituals. To lie upon a carpet of blossoms might be romance itself, but Fíli needed bare floor until Dr. Churkin came.

As Shurik set about gathering bouquets, Fíli ducked behind a Japanese painted screen to change into a light woolen singlet. He pulled on stockings with the toes and heels cut off, then chose a bare rectangle of floor on which to do his stretches. At the very last, he lay on his back and propped his heels high up against the nearest wall. It wasn’t much, but it would prevent the worst of the leg cramps.

While they waited, Praskoviya went back to reading the letter. _Hm. Hm!... Hm._

A piteous voice from the floor: _Don’t._

Churkin and his assistant arrived, bearing buckets of ice, liniments, towels, and a tightly-corked, flannel-wrapped stoneware bottle filled with boiling hot water. Fíli sat in his chair holding the hot water bottle against his sore abdomen while Churkin iced his ankles and calves.

 _It’s a good thing you’ve the day off tomorrow,_ the physician muttered. _You drove yourself too hard tonight. It all looked very splendid, but there is a limit to what the body can take._

 _Tell that to Ivanov_ , retorted Praskoviya.

Supper arrived – _shchav_ , roast chicken, and a glass of red wine with a pinch of salt added. _To replenish the blood,_ Praskoviya said. Fíli ran a spoon through the _shchav_ , picked at the chicken, and knocked back all of the wine in one go.

Without the preamble of a knock, the door opened to reveal Lev Ivanov in his astrakhan hat, coat draped over his shoulders. The ballet master fixed his pince-nez, looked at Fíli up and down without emotion, then snorted.

 _Poor baby. Did we stub our little toe?_ he remarked—irritably, as if Fíli had forced the insult out of him.

Inclined to speak for the speechless, Praskoviya piped up. _Fíli danced well, don’t you think, Lev Ivanovich? In fact, almost too well, but never fear. There’s no injury. He’s merely resting._

Ivanov grunted, smoothing a curled mustache tip. _Not for long. Rehearsals for the February tribute resume on Monday._ Then, to Fíli, perfectly offhand: _Before I forget, I’ve decided I don’t want you for Siegfried._

Silence so loud it could have cracked the plaster.

 _I’m giving it to Yuri. His height, you see. You could never be a_ danseur noble, _as little as you are._

An indignant flush darkened Praskoviya’s face. _But you as much as promised it! He’s been working like a dog!_

 _And look what a toll it’s taken._ Ivanov made a skeptical face at Fíli’s bruised feet, still in their tub of ice water. _Stamina is essential for perfect results, Praskoviya Ioannovna. And remember, the choreography is wholly mine this time. It’s too important for me to take chances._

Fíli said nothing, but kept his eyes on the wilted petals still strewn across the floor.

 _What, then, will you give him?_ demanded Praskoviya.

_Perhaps Benno? Although Feodor would be far better… A light heart is almost as important as light feet for that role. But cheer up, Fílipp Akselovich! No doubt your prince will give you a big consolation prize tonight!_

With that, Ivanov disappeared down the hall.

 _Bastard!_ Praskoviya whispered. _Bastard!_

 _I’m going to be sick,_ said Fíli.

 _Don’t let the old monster spoil it for you! You danced it perfectly,_ Churkin declared.

_It’s not only that, Doctor! Dangling principal roles in front of him only to snatch them away… passing him up, keeping him back, but making him work twice as hard as any… It’s torture! The man’s a tyrant! He—_

_I’m going to be sick,_ Fíli repeated.

He meant it.

A bolt of anger cleaved Praskoviya’s heart as she held the basin for him. She had not even had to think of where to find it; her hand had reached out of automatic habit. When had she started to _expect_ Fíli to make use of it? 

Afterward she poured him a glass of water and dabbed his waxy, cool brow with her handkerchief. _There, my lad. It’s nothing. It’s nothing._

Silence. Fíli had retreated into himself, and any triumph the evening had held turned black and lusterless.

En route to the Mariinsky in his mother’s _coupé_ , Kíli reflected on the last five years.

He first laid eyes on his love at a showing of _La Forêt enchantée,_ Lev Ivanov’s failed debut as balletmaster. The story, the score, the choreography, all left the audience cold. But the Spirit of the Forest captivated Kíli. The soloist’s feral grace lifted this dreary dumbshow out of mediocrity, if only for one performance.

At the reception, Prince Gavril Petrovich had the debatable pleasure of watching his teenaged son act the lovestruck fool in front of all Saint Petersburg society. Kíli pushed through the throng to stand quivering before a slight blond _danseur_. Each clad in his uniform – Corps des Pages and Imperial Ballet Academy – the two youths gaped at each other in breath-pent silence. After what seemed like an aeon, Kíli managed to splutter, _You… the Spirit of the Forest… you were… you ARE_ …

 _Fíli,_ the _danseur_ whispered.

It ought to have made for a comical tale over the billiard table, and no more. But Kíli’s brothers grew very grave when he recounted this meeting to them. 

_Fílipp Koivu, of the Mariinsky?_ asked Aleksei, incredulous. _Not some other? You’re very sure?_

_I’m sure._

_He gave YOU his personal name?_ Fima gaped at Kíli. _He actually let you call him by it?_

_Yes! What is wrong with that?_

His brothers all looked at each other. This marked the moment at which Kíli began to understand that Fílipp Akselovich Koivu was regarded as something uncommon, both in his own milieu and in theirs.

As the eldest, Timofei claimed the right to make lofty speeches on all subjects. But even he seemed taken aback by this news. He glared sternly at Kíli. _You realize, don’t you, that you’ve begun to climb a peak no one else has ever even attempted? Tread carefully, brother, and not merely for your own safety. It would be a shame for muddy footprints to spoil the pure white snow._

Thereafter, Kíli’s brothers ceased to tease him and even paid him a sort of grudging respect, for he’d managed to win an impossible prize. Most significant of all, they guarded his secret as if it was their own.

They, too, felt moved to preserve the pure white snow.

It began as friendship tinged with yearning on both sides but hindered by the hectic pace of life. At first, occasional meetings and hasty notes were all they could manage. But as each graduated their respective academies and began to move on with their careers, time seemed to open like a flower for them. 

Like sun after months of ice: so it was when Fíli began to confide in Kíli. Fedya’s latest wisecrack. Ivanov’s latest taunt. The elation of performance. The emptiness that follows. The ache of being alone in the world. The cold hard fear an unwanted touch brings; the sensation of being robbed of one’s worth. 

_I would rather die than steal from you what you wished to keep,_ Kíli promised. _Nor would I ever spurn what you wished to give_.

The first time he and Fíli held hands, Kíli felt their bones and nerves and veins knit together. From that point there could be no picking them apart. He stammered something about it to Fíli, who solemnly nodded. 

_It is so,_ he said. 

To Kíli’s ears, those words held the power of a bridegroom’s _I do._

Raw new emotions transformed Fíli’s art. To precision, he added passion; cold technique made way for expressive fire. Onstage, he danced with such vigor and daring he seemed to take flight, head thrown back in ecstasy. This vision of Fíli with eyes closed and lips softly parted made Kíli gasp and blush. He wondered if _this_ was the face Fíli would make in the throes of love.

It was.

The Liteyniy Prospekt apartment was Kíli’s gift to them both, a place to throw off all shackles and be free. In their wide soft bed, they set about conquering one another—slow and cautious at first, then with increasing abandon, each gallantly surrendering everything to the other without being asked.

But just as the serpent’s tree overshadowed Eden, one bitter spectre darkened their paradise. 

The ancient and noble Durinev clan possessed immense wealth—more, it was said, than the Tsar himself! Every Durinev son came into his personal fortune at twenty-one years of age. If still single, he’d soon find his barricades stormed by the overeager parents of eligible daughters. So it was with Kíli.

 _It’s the way of nature,_ Timofei counseled. _There’s nothing to be done for it._

Kíli thought otherwise.

Kira, Darya, Yaroslava: against all these, he held firm. It was easy; they were strangers. With Stina, it took longer. When you’ve known someone all your life, climbed trees and gazed at clouds and dreamt up childish adventures together, one cannot wish to wound them. 

Luckily, Stina wanted Kíli for a spouse no more than he wanted her. _We’re fine as friends,_ she told him with a grin. _I’d hate to lose that by having to actually_ live _with you._

It took time to outmaneuver their parents without alerting the St. Petersburg gossips. Now that the deed was done, Kíli had only one objective: to settle his future with Fíli. 

_My poor love,_ he thought. _He’s been so patient and suffered for so long. But tonight, he’ll see. If I cannot give him a ring, I’ll give him a key instead!_

He called up to the coachman: _Faster, Khodansky! By the time we arrive, the spring thaw will have come!_

Gossip always trickles downward to find its own level. In less time than it takes to do a grand _plié_ , everyone in the theatre seemed to know about Fíli and Ivanov. Dancers being superstitious by nature, they avoided Fíli’s dressing room as if his ill fortune might spoil their own chances. So the plague circle was drawn. Sitting alone, Fíli pondered the future with little hope in his heart. 

Ivanov’s grudge, he could understand. _La Forêt enchantée_ had been a failure, but only for one of them. In savaging the choreographer but lauding the dancer, the critics set the stage for a professional vendetta that lasted for years.

Kíli only complicated it.

That fateful night had been Fíli’s first time on the reception line. As _corps_ and _coryphée_ , he’d never had to take part in the performance that comes _after_ the ballet. He found it to be torture. The way these aristocrats smiled and licked their lips at the sight of him…

But the black-haired prince who stood before Fíli did not seem bent on devouring him. Warm brown eyes met his—and _saw him._ Not a character, not a costume, not a mirage; not Fílipp Koivu the orphan, motherless at two, fatherless at five, ward of the state, property of the Imperial Ballet. Just himself: Fíli. And just as readily, Fíli _saw Kíli._ Not a prince, not a dawdler, not a rich boy seeking a pet. Just himself: Kíli.

Lev Ivanov was furious.

 _You think you’ll have it made now, but you’re no better than you ought to be,_ he bellowed at Fíli. _The Imperial Ballet has no room for pampered lap dogs. I can put you out on the street at a moment’s notice, you know. You’ll spend the rest of your short life peddling firewood and sucking cock in alleyways_. He dismissed Fíli with a wave. _Back to the corps for another year. That will teach you to flirt._

Five years. Five years of hard work and privation, of battling his way back to soloist status. Five years of Kíli’s love and support lifting him over the stones in his path. No two souls could have been more tightly entwined. But now, but now….

Fíli had finally read his prince’s letter.

> _My love,  
>  _ _I have news. I hope it will not excite you too much, as I know how performing tires you. We will speak calmly later, when I come for you.  
>  _ _À ce soir._
> 
> _K._

So the end had come; Ivanov had won, and now Stina, too.

A light tap on the door, the creak of a hinge. Kseniya, dressed for dinner under her mink _shuba_. If she played her cards with a certain highborn cuirassier right, soon she’d own a set of sables just like that little chit Kschessinska! 

_He’s here,_ she whispered. _Do you want me to walk out with you?_

Fíli shook his head. He’d been vanquished in front of witnesses once already this evening.

 _You look very Slavic tonight, for a Finn,_ Kseniya teased. _That tunic, those trousers— charmingly Old Rus, I’d say. But what’s this— you’re wearing felt boots? Not leather? You peasant. Although if I could, I would do the same. It’s fearfully cold, and we more than anyone have to safeguard our ankles for the glory of the Tsar._

Nothing.

 _Your prince will like your outfit,_ Kseniya tried again. _Folkloric things always give the aristocracy a thrill; they think poverty is type of couture. If only they paid us for it, we’d outfit them to their heart’s delight. Instead they take the clothes off our backs._ She struck a seductive pose. _At least I hope mine will, tonight._

A tiny smile.

Encouraged, the ballerina prattled on. _He seems very happy tonight, your prince. Perhaps he’s come to make you happy as well, and not a moment too soon, if you ask me._

 _I didn’t,_ said Fíli.

 _Nor did you ask me to give him a talking-to, but I did. Oh, not a terrible one!_ she quickly added, seeing fear in Fíli’s eyes. _I simply told him you’d had a miserable evening and he’d better be kind to you or I’d box his ears._

 _I changed my mind,_ said Fíli. _Please walk with me, Ksenka. I can’t… I can’t face it otherwise._

 _Face what?_ Now it was Kseniya’s turn for alarm. _Do you think he’s come to…?_

_Yes._

_Oh, Filochka._

She helped him into his coat, adjusted his _ushanka_ over his blond curls, and took his ungloved hand in hers. _Filochka, listen to me. You and I have known each other, oh, so very long. You know how I feel about our patrons. So long as they keep me well-fed, well-dressed, and warm, I really don’t care that they view me as a courtesan. But you…_ She touched Fíli’s cheek. _I have to believe that Kyril Gavrilovich is different, otherwise I’ll simply snap._

So saying, she pulled him toward the corridor. 

Never did a walk seem so interminable to Fíli. All the other dancers had gone—some to meet their lovers or attend fancy society suppers, others to go home to their tiny coal stoves and boiled potatoes. Soon he’d join them. How stupid he’d been, how careless, how gullible. He should have known he was nothing more than a novelty, a diversion, a pet _(yes, a pet!)_ to be set loose the moment a more acceptable companion was found.

A lap dog, just as Ivanov said. 

With each step, he prayed to holy God to turn his heart to iron so that it could not break. But it was no use, no use at all. The moment Fíli beheld Kíli, beautiful eager Kíli standing by the _coupé_ in the frigid night air, he remembered that iron can melt if the fire is high and hot enough.

_You’re shivering._

Kíli pulled Fíli tighter against him and rearranged the fur rugs more securely around them both. More ominous than the cold, however, was the silence that traveled with them like a sinister third passenger. Fíli seemed unable to unable or unwilling to defy this demon. It was up to Kíli to hold it at bay.

 _Kseniya Borisovna was in rare form tonight,_ he began. _She said I’d overdone it with the flowers. I told her I would have them redistributed among the churches, but she said they were far too lascivious. The gift would encourage the faithful to sin right there in the pews._

 _They were beautiful,_ murmured Fíli, cheek pressed to Kíli’s collar. _Thank you._

_Kseniya told me you danced marvelously tonight, but also that Ivanov insulted you._

Fíli sighed. A faint aroma of licorice drifted to Kíli’s nose; he recognized it at once. Mme. Glebova – the name by which he addressed Praskoviya – kept a tin of Anis de Flavigny in her pocket for what she euphemistically called _moments délicats,_ sensitive moments. From the scent of his lover’s breath tonight, Kíli deduced that Ivanov’s insults had caused Fíli to get sick to his stomach. Again.

In his excitement, Kíli had planned to have Khodansky drive them straight to the mansion on Bol’shaya Morskaya so that he could surprise Fíli on their soon-to-be-very-own threshold. Now a strong wave of compassion swept over him, mingled with embarrassment at his own childish self-centeredness. He bent his head to whisper tenderly in Fíli’s ear. _I’m taking you home._

Fíli stiffened. _Where else would you be taking me?_ Much, much later, he’d confess to thinking that Kíli meant to drop him off in some benighted corner of Saint Petersburg and gallop quickly away. 

With a smile, Kíli pulled Fíli securely against him again. _Oh, wouldn’t you like to know!_ he thought.

Had the divine Kschessinska chosen Kíli over the Tsarevich, she would have been insulted by the apartment on Liteyniy Prospekt. _Only eight rooms, not counting servants’ quarters?_ _What self-respecting demimondaine would live in such a pigeon’s nest?_

None, perhaps. But Fíli felt safe there. 

For the first year or so, he stuck to three rooms and had to be coaxed into trying the others. His taste in furnishings was that of a monk, but as he had no desire for visitors, of what use was a decorator? He and Kíli simply did as they liked in the interest of being comfortable. This extended to hiring servants. Having never had any before, shy Fíli accepted the barest minimum. He seemed bent on regarding them as fellow orphans, playmates with whom to drink tea and play Will You Go to the Ball? Sensing no point in schooling him otherwise, Kíli abandoned his highborn _hauteur_ to join them around the scullery table.

 _Good evening, Andreas!_ he called out to the doorman as they approached the portico. _Would you be so kind as to let Sveta know we’re home, and to run a bath?_

_Of course, sir. Did the performance go well?_

With an almost imperceptible twitch of his lips, Kíli shook his head: _Don’t ask._

Upstairs - after a long soak, during which Fíli demanded to be left alone with the door closed; he knew he might cry and didn’t wish to be caught - Kíli took care of his partner. 

Two years together had taught him much about what Fíli needed after a performance. Aching, knotted muscles and overworked tendons cried out for relief; hectic thoughts begged to be lulled into tranquility. For the first, Kíli maintained a collection of pleasant-smelling balms that would ease the flow of his fingers and palms over Fíli’s bath-warmed skin. For the second, he simply held Fíli. Sometimes they conversed; sometimes not. Tonight, as promised, they would.

Enveloped in a thick grey velvet robe, Fíli tried desperately to relax, listening to Kíli’s heart. Would this be the last time, or would they continue to meet past the nuptials? Would he still be living here, then, or would he be pressed into leaving Russia altogether?...

In his preoccupation, he nearly missed Kíli saying: … _on Bol’shaya Morskaya._

_…what?_

_Mother has promised us the Bariatinsky mansion. It will be ready by summer._

The room and Kíli’s encircling arms seemed to disappear, replaced by cold white clouds. Before he could dwell on the noose of grief that constricted his heart, Fíli told Kíli in a hollow voice, _I congratulate you._

Kíli chuckled. _It’s very beautiful. Many rooms, many views, a garden walk. We could drive there tomorrow to look at it, if you like._

Why would he say this? How could he not know the lash marks his words left in Fíli’s soul?

 _I’ll take your word for it._ said Fíli.

 _Oh. Oh, well._ Kíli actually dared to sound disappointed. _I really wanted to hear what you think about it. I hope it is not too grandiose._

If Fíli could have sunk any lower, he would have been in his grave. _I’m sure Stina will like it,_ he whispered. _She is used to many rooms, many views._

 _Stina…?_ Kíli sat up in consternation, causing Fíli to slide back against the pillows. _Oh… Oh! You think…_ And then his laughter filled their room, and before Fíli could fling himself to the bed’s edge and storm out with the slam of a door, Kíli flopped down facing him and gripped him by the shoulder. _Lipa, no. Forgive me, I wasn’t being plain enough. It’s for you and me._

_What is?_

_The mansion on Bol’shaya Morskaya._

_I don’t… I don’t understand you. You’re to marry Stina._

_No, I’m not. I’m to be with you. Mother is giving us – me and_ you _, Lipa; not Stina – the Bariatinsky mansion. If you like the house, we’ll live there. If not, we’ll find another. Do you see what I’m trying to tell you? If you want me, Fílipp Akselovich Koivu, I’m yours until you don’t._

What occurred next, Fíli would never remember, no matter how he strove to dredge it up from his mind’s well. He only remembered arriving, his face pressed against Kíli’s wet shoulder, his throat feeling torn to shreds when he swallowed the cool water Kíli gave him to drink.

 _You cried,_ Kíli told him later. _Oh, how you cried. For every tear you have ever held back in your life, a hundred flowed from your eyes._

_Mother tells me the garden is glorious. The Bariatinskys wanted a winter garden in summer, so they had all white flowers planted to represent snow. White roses, white tulips, mock orange blossoms—_

‘Mock’?... _You mean fake? Fake flowers?_

They had pulled the great swansdown comforter over their heads to make a little universe all their own. The curve of their bodies nesting neatly, Fíli’s back to Kíli’s chest, they spun out the time before sleep with idle talk.

 _No. They’re real, but of a kind whose scent masquerades as that of another flower. There are many other wonderful gardens in the neighborhood. The air smells very sweet. There’s the embankment, and Aleksandrovskiy Park, and St. Isaac’s, and the_ _Konnogvardeyskiy_ _Manege where I ride. And of course the Mariinsky is so close, it would be easy for you to—_

 _Kíli._ Fíli’s voice – peaceful so long as they spoke of flowers – became strained once more _. I don’t want to go back._

_I don’t blame you; you’ve had a terrible evening—_

_No, listen._ Fíli pressed himself backwards, capturing Kíli’s free hand and squeezing it tightly against his chest. _I_ cannot _go back there_. _Please don’t make me go back there._

 _Make you? I can’t make you._ Rising up on one elbow, Kíli brought Fíli’s fist to his lips. _But you love to dance, Lipa. Don’t you?_

 _I’ve danced since I was seven because I was made to,_ came Fíli’s blunt testimony. _I was an orphan; what choice did I have? If I learned to love the dance, it was not because of those who beat me, who fed me next to nothing, who put their hands… ah, I’ve told you how they were._

_Yes. Filthy ogres._

_Lev Ivanov is only the latest in that string of ogres. And the patrons of the ballet are no better for all the jewels and medals they wear._ Fíli opened his fingers to lace them through Kíli’s. _I will never hate the art that brought you to me. But if I decide not to give myself to the ogres, will you regret having taken me on?_

 _Never._ Kíli brushed his lips against the nape of Fíli’s neck. _I would save you from them time and again._

 _Then I will stay home from the Mariinsky, and give myself to you instead._ Turning in bed, weaving his legs through and around his partner’s, Fíli returned the kiss with a drowsier one of his own.

 _Listen,_ whispered Kíli as their hearthfire died down. _There’s a ballroom in the mansion. I doubt we’ll ever use it for that purpose, but I’m thinking…_

_Mmmhh?_

_We could convert it into a studio for you to dance in…_

_Mmmh._

_… perhaps give private recitals… or even teach others… make a school of it…_

_…mm…_

Safe in their dream, united for all time, they slept.


End file.
